


Get Your Mind Outta the Gutter

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Series: If It Ain't Baroque [2]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Feeding, Fluff, Guyliner, M/M, Urban Fantasy, Vampires, for some reason Len is a punk??, he likes Lestat too much imo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 11:56:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6752944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Len hums, clearly unconvinced. “Are we gonna stand here all night and talk about your terrible fashion choices—”<br/>“—are you really saying that to me—”<br/>“—or do I have to drink from your cat?”</p><p>In which not all vampiric feedings have to be sex with teeth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Your Mind Outta the Gutter

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to do a twist on the feeding fic cliche. I hope you like it! :D

You don’t have to invite a vampire into your home more than once, which is really convenient if you ask Mick, especially when your vampire actually acts like a civilized creature and always enters through the door, not the window or some creepy bullshit like that, and you’re busy feeding your cat.

“Hey,” Mick calls over his shoulder, “gimme a sec.”

As always, Len unzips his combat boots and places them neatly next to Mick’s mess of sneakers and hiker’s boots next to the door, hanging his coat up where Mick threw his over the nearest chair.

Tonight he’s got fishnet gloves up to his elbows, dark jeans, and a [Star Wars trilogy cast tank top](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fimages.shirts.com%2Fproducts%2F23834%2F13-14%2Fmens-star-wars-tank-top.jpg&t=MTYwYTg0Mzk4NTIyYmZlMmU5OWQwNzcwOGE3OTJiOTk1Yjg0ZmU0OCx2UVJDcEVvcQ%3D%3D). One look at the guyliner and Mick’s snorting his coffee.

Len looks severely unimpressed. “Problem?” he asks.

“Nope,” Mick says, “but I think you let Lestat throw up on you again.”

“Says the man who’s wearing a ‘Real Goths’ shirt.”

Mick looks down at said shirt. _[Real Goths Don’t Wear Black, They Sack Rome](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fs-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com%2F236x%2Fe4%2F45%2F68%2Fe4456873a5d7da3892b76799b8346a8b.jpg&t=YzBmMDVmNWI5MjIzMTc1MWFiNzExOTQ2MzJlYzQxNjI4YWVlYTZmMSx2UVJDcEVvcQ%3D%3D)_. “It’s an intelligent history joke, Anne Rice.”

Len’s eyes pointedly travel to the accompanying pajama pants, which have Da Vinci’s David’s dick over Mick’s crotch, stone legs taking the rest.

“You know that Leo would appreciate it,” Mick says.

Len hums, clearly unconvinced. “Are we gonna stand here all night and talk about your terrible fashion choices—”

“—are _you_ really saying that to me—”

“—or do I have to drink from your cat?”

Mick glares. “Don’t even joke about that, you pale son of a bitch. I ain’t obligated to feed you, y’know.”

Len doesn’t apologize. Never does. Still, he gives Vulcan a sympathetic pet when the cat comes to greet him—because of course out of the two of them, the traitorous feline goes for the _vampire_.

“Alright, you greedy bastard. I gotta get my lighter first.”

Unlike everyone else, Len merely nods and brushes past him. Mick grabs his zippo from the counter and joins him.

Most vampires like it when the blood’s pumping, the reason for so many people getting jumped on the street. For Len, though, you gotta be comfy. Nothing gets Mick comfy like a little flame.

Vulcan’s already purring in Len’s lap. Mick grumbles at him as he plops on the couch. Then he flicks open his lighter…and nothing else matters.

 _Ah_.

Mick runs his fingers through it as he would a woman’s hair, feeling the heat burn his fingers in a pleasant ache. Unfortunately Len’s thirsty enough to take that free hand, but hey, the fire’s not goin’ anywhere.

Len traces the veins in Mick’s arm carefully. He never likes to do the neck—too messy, he says, and guarantees a far greater risk of turning the feeder into a victim instead.

One time he sucked directly from Mick’s cock and, no, they are _never_ doing that again, _shit_ that was painful, no matter how far under Len put him. Thighs weren’t too bad, but. Cat. Wrist it is.

Once he locates the vein, Len leans up to brush his lips against Mick’s ear. “Relax,” he whispers, “let your left arm go numb.”

As he sways towards those lips, Mick wanders over random facts. In Leo Ivanovich’s time, the trance was called a vampire’s “curse.” In America, that somehow changed to “glamor” come the 1910’s. In the 1940’s, it was known simply as the lure, but by the next decade changed to hypnosis, until the early 2000’s rolled around. Now it’s just “trance.” Scientists think it has something to do with the sound waves a vampire can manipulate, though how they do that is still a mystery.

What? Mick had a double major in history and art. Research is what he _does_.

Between Len and the flame, he’s completely out of it. By the time Len’s tilted his head back against the couch and bitten into his wrist, he doesn’t feel a damn thing.

The lighter’s closed, but when Mick closes his eyes he can still see it, courtesy of Len’s voice filtering through his head. The telepathy thing’s not allowed outside of these moments; Mick won’t stand for it. Bad enough that shrinks tried rummaging around in there.

At some point—time’s a weird concept under Len’s influence—Mick’s head lolls to the left. He peels his eyelids open, ‘cause sometimes he just likes to look at Len like this, with his cold shield down.

He’s gorgeous, Lenny. Not just because he’s a vampire, at least not to Mick. Besides, when he’s feeding, Len’s eyes are rimmed with angry red and his face is morphed into a spidery monstrosity that Mick wouldn’t fuck for all the alcohol in the world. Nah, it’s ‘cause Lenny’s a dork who wears guyliner and quotes Star Wars; ‘cause even though his tastebuds don’t work very well with human food anymore, he still tries to make eggs the morning after he feeds from Mick; ‘cause he got Vulcan an AC/DC cat sweater for his birthday; ‘cause he wears make-up so he can see his reflection and make a tiny, relieved smile when he does.

All these things and more flow through Mick’s mind. He supposes it’s mostly due to Len’s trance making him think about how amazing the vampire is, how he should let him do whatever he wants. Still, part of him also likes to think it’s because he just really likes having Len in his life.

Feedings make him sickeningly sentimental.

At length, Len pulls his fangs out with a quiet sigh, elongated tongue gently lapping at the wounds. For a split second he’s a blur; Mick barely feels the interruption between licks, even as his nerves slowly wake up.

Len bandages Mick’s arm. His jaw cracks back into a more human length, fangs following suit. The bulging veins recede, sharpened cheekbones dull, gargoyle eyes shrink and return to their beautiful blue. He’s his usual self before he’s done wrapping the wounds.

Both of them, dazed and content after the whole process, lean into each other and share a few lazy kisses. Mick tastes the afterimages of his own blood; Len tastes the coffee Mick had finished off after he arrived.

Vulcan, thankfully, has not been disturbed, having fallen asleep in Len’s lap. And really, that’s what’s important here.

In between kisses, Mick teases, “Wanna watch _The Munsters_?”

Len nips his bottom lip. “Just for that, I’m puttin’ on _March of the Penguins_.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
